Elapsed
by intjsherlocked
Summary: Sherlock and John are thrust back in time to capture a serial killer of the past. It's guaranteed that it won't be a smooth or boring case with modern-day Sherlock running about Victorian London.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! I kept thinking about a story where BBC's modern Sherlock and John traveled back in time, but not just in Sherlock's mind palace like in the Abominable Bride. I hope you like it!**

 **Set in 1895, and all from the point of view of modern day Sherlock and John.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, only the specific plotlines that I write. All rights go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss.**

 **A/N: Please review/follow/favorite! I would appreciate it so much!  
I've never been to London or even England (or Europe, for that matter) nor have I ever time-traveled to the Victorian era, so there might be some inconsistencies, but I'll try to keep it as culturally and historically accurate as I can. **

* * *

"Any new cases?" John asked Sherlock one morning. The detective was sprawled on his armchair, his eyes shut.

"No," Sherlock said flatly. "I'm so bored, John. It's been a week since we've had a case!"

John opened the fridge and took the egg carton out.

"How do you want your eggs, Sherlock?" John asked, ignoring his friend's complaints of boredom, which occurred nearly every hour that they didn't have a case.

"Hmm. I don't care. Scrambled," Sherlock decided, and his eyes opened. He reached for his violin and began to play a rather nice tune, unlike the mournful sounds he usually played. He only stopped once John had told him breakfast was ready.

"John, how do you do it?" Sherlock asked, taking a small bite of his food.

"Do what?"  
"Keep from being bored! Is there a secret that I'm unaware of?"

"Well," John said, smiling slightly, "you could always take up a hobby. Knitting, painting, singing…" He trailed off, entertaining himself with the prospect of the last one.

"Dull, dull, and dull," Sherlock said in a monotone voice. "I'm calling Lestrade." He opened his phone and dialed a number.

"Hello, Gordon. Do you have any cases?"

There was a pause as Lestrade answered on the other end. John waited, hoping desperately for there to be a case, because Sherlock was belligerent when he was bored.

"How are there no murders?" Sherlock was insisting. John sighed and went into the bathroom to shower. He was shampooing his hair when there was a sharp rap at the door.

"Sherlock! I'm _showering!_ " John shouted.

The detective's baritone voice drifted, muffled, through the door. "I'm not stupid, John. That was fairly obvious. But hurry up. Mycroft has a case for me."

"But I thought you didn't take Mycroft's cases, to spite him?" John asked. There was a barely audible groan of frustration from the other side of the door.

"I'm _bored,_ John. Now, do hurry up. Be dressed and ready to go within two minutes." Footsteps indicated Sherlock had left the door. John cursed his flatmate, then hastily rinsed the shampoo out of his hair. It took him another seven minutes to get dry and dressed, and by the time he reached the landing to join Sherlock, the latter was looking at his watch pointedly.

"Seven minutes and fifty-three seconds, John," he said, running down the stairs like an antelope. "Let's go! Though of course Mycroft himself is dull and slow, his description of the case sounds fascinating!"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, they were standing in Mycroft's office.

"I've got a serious case for you, Sherlock. That means that you cannot blow this off nor can you treat it as a 'game'," Mycroft began. Sherlock muttered something unintelligible.

"We - 'we' as in the government - are aware of a serial killer in the year 1895. All of the serial killer's victims were important scientists that contributed to the study of astronomy."

"Boring. Mycroft, I thought I came for an interesting case. I don't plan on doing any research, so I hope you've gathered all of the historical information that I'll need."

"I expected as much and already prepared a file on the serial killer and his victims," Mycroft said, smiling placidly. "You may not think that astronomy is important, but to the rest of the world, we lost seven great astronomers to this serial killer."

"So what's the case?" Sherlock asked, leaning on his elbows onto the desk. Mycroft placed his hands underneath his chin contemplatively.

"Before I tell you, I need you to swear to not tell anyone what I am about to divulge. This is completely confidential, and Sherlock, if I find you telling others about it, or…" He turned to John. "Or, John, if this next case is published on your blog next month, I can promise that you will regret it."

"Mycroft, you're telling us it's confidential. We won't tell anyone, and if you don't trust us to not tell, then I don't see why you're trusting us with the case," John scoffed. "Get on with it and say what the bloody case is."

Mycroft regained his cold demeanor.

"I'd like you to go back to 1895 and capture the serial killer before he murders the great astronomers of the Victorian era."

Sherlock gazed unblinkingly at his brother. "I take it that you're not kidding. I presume that you've somehow devised with a team of scientists a way to go back in time?"

"Precisely."

"Tell me more," Sherlock said in the tone that he reserved for only his brother.

"We've done a bit of testing with the machine and have discovered several qualities about it. First, time will not move in the modern era while you two travel back in time; that is, when you return, it will be the same minute as when you left. In fact, we're not even sure if the modern age ceases to exist until the time machine brings you back to present day." Mycroft surveyed John. "Are you keeping up?"

"I'm not that thick, Mycroft," John said, offended.

"Mycroft, he may be ignorant at times, but I can vouch for his above average intelligence," Sherlock snapped. "Please continue."

"We have also discovered that users of the time machine do not age while in a different era," Mycroft said. "This is of interest and is under research at the moment. It is thus far presumed that the interference with time disrupts the body's natural aging. If you spent a year in the Victorian era - not that you'll be there that long - you would return in exactly the same state as when you left."

"What are the risk factors? Are there any chances of death?" Sherlock asked.

"None that we're aware of yet."  
Sherlock considered his brother. "What do you think?" he asked, turning to John. "Do we take the case?"  
John was aware that Sherlock was asking for his opinion only to irritate his brother, because he scarcely asked for John's opinion with typical clients on whether they should take a case or not, but he was pleased by it nonetheless.

"I don't know. Is it fascinating enough?" John said, knowing full well that Sherlock would be bursting with excitement if it was Lestrade's case and not Mycroft's.

"I suppose we'll take it, brother mine," Sherlock said in a reluctant tone, snatching the file out of Mycroft's hands. "When are we starting?"

"Today, if you would please. There's been a breakthrough in astronomy but we're missing some essential knowledge, and it is the hope that saving these astronomers will reveal information that we didn't have previously. You'll be taken back to September second of 1895, a week before the serial killer's first victim."  
Sherlock stood up quickly, smoothing his coat and adjusting his scarf. "Let's go, John. Take us to the time machine, Mycroft."

* * *

"So this is it?" Sherlock asked, palming a small metallic circle with several dials and switches on it. "The… 'time device'?"

"Yes. Turn the dial to the desired date and pull the switch. Unless you want John left behind in present day, I suggest that you both are holding onto the device as you turn the switch."

John examined the small device. "I thought it would be a huge machine with a tangle of wires and such," he said, marveling at the simplicity of it.

"Those are incorrect suppositions portrayed by movies," Mycroft said in a superior tone. "Sherlock, do not lose that time device. It's your ticket back to present day once you've finished your case."

"I'm not idiotic, Mycroft," Sherlock said, tossing the time device in the air and catching it again. "Right. Let's go, John."

"Do not throw that into the air!" Mycroft said, flushing, as Sherlock flipped the dials with his nimble fingers. "Ensure that the device returns safely! It is a breakthrough of modern-"

"John, hold on," Sherlock commanded. John took hold of the device with his friend, and Sherlock waved to his brother before flipping the switch. With a clap of thunder, everything went black.

 **I've read time travel fan fictions before where the plot moves too slowly, so I'm trying to keep it at a reasonable pace. The next chapter will begin with Sherlock and John already in the Victorian era, so follow if you want to read more! Please leave a review with what you think because I'd be so grateful! I'm also open to suggestions for events that take place in the Victorian era to modern Sherlock and John, so if you have an idea, please please let me know in a review; it'd be very welcome! Thank you so much for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Recap: Sherlock and John were sent to Victorian London to capture a serial killer that would murder seven important astronomers.**

The thunder clap that seemed to reverberate from the time device echoed away after ten seconds. The blackness was slowly replaced by color, as though someone were drawing piece by piece the darkness away. John clutched the metal device until everything had been filled in and he could see Sherlock. They were standing in an room that had the same construction as Mycroft's office except now there was… antiquity to it. The floorboards were dusty and narrow. The walls had floral wallpaper and the windows were tiny. There were two twin beds and a large chest in between them.

"We're in Victorian London," John said, near laughing. "This is insane." He paused. "Oh. Sherlock, why didn't we prepare more?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, bemused, examining the walls with interest.

"I mean, we haven't got money, food, clothing, or anything! All we have is the clothes on our backs - thank goodness we're both wearing coats - our phones!" John stopped short and pulled out his phone. It lit up, reading "No Service".

"Your phone will be dead by the end of the day and there will be nothing to charge it," Sherlock reminded John excitedly. "This is an authentic Victorian case! We should do this with all of our cold cases in the future!"

John looked at his phone in despair and put it back in his pocket.

"We still haven't got any money," he told Sherlock. "I think I've got about five pounds but that's it!"  
"I think you'll find that my brother prepared for us," Sherlock said, now opening the chest that was in between the two twin beds.

"Sherlock, this isn't ours!" John said. "Speaking of - let's get out of this person's house before they get back!"  
"This is ours now," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I believe my brother must have had someone come back before we came to claim this room which will be Mycroft's office in the future, and stock it with…" Sherlock dug through the chest. "Snacks, including tea, nuts, soup, etc… there's a profusion of money… clothes… a gun… not to mention the two beds that were put in here for us. "

"Oh," John said, relieved. "Alright, then."

Sherlock lifted up the clothing. "This is hideous," he noted, and stuffed the clothing back into the chest.

"Shouldn't we change into it? So we don't look suspicious?"

"I'd rather stand out. It will attract attention, thus giving me more connections to people and finding the serial killer quicker. I'd prefer if you stayed in your jumper, John, as well, because we need to be as unique as possible if we want people to pay attention to us."

John was internally glad that was Sherlock's first plan, as he had no inclination to replace his warm jumper with the heavy material that Sherlock had just called clothing.

Sherlock paced the room. "This is what we know, John. The serial killer is a man approximately age fifty. He's married and is very wealthy. He lives in a mansion outside of London. Thirty years ago he pushed for the sanitation movements for London; that's where he first gained popularity. Later he supported schooling for children, and began to donate money to education."  
"If he's so rich, why did he feel the need to murder astronomers?" John asked.

"Good question, John, and that is part of the mystery," Sherlock said enthusiastically. "We need more information on him in order to determine that. We've got to head out into central London and see what we can find out about him."

"Hang on - why don't we just go to his mansion, sneak in, and capture him? Then the case will be over!"  
"But it won't be _solved_ , John! The motivation for his murder is most of the fun!" Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff and put it on, and John followed him out of the flat they were staying in.

* * *

Sherlock and John stood on the street in awe of Victorian London. It was the same, yet so different; horses and carriages were all over the streets, along with the thunder of railways. Women dressed in long dresses walked primly next to men who had coats and hats on.

"I feel so out of place," John vocalized, already noticing the looks he was getting. "It's like my jumper is a beacon or something. At least you're wearing a button-up."

"My coat feels somewhat like a beacon as well, actually," Sherlock agreed interestedly. "Let's go make a friend." He pointed to the nearby restaurant. "We'll go there." Without bothering to wait for John or tell him his plan, the detective was off, dashing across the street.

"Hang on!" John shouted. "You realize that accidents happened all the time with people getting hit by carriages?" He ignored the looks he was getting and followed his friend into the restaurant.

Once they were seated at a table, Sherlock steepled his hands.

"Sherlock, can you tell me the plan?" John asked "Please? I have no idea whatsoever what we're doing."

"We're going to make a friend in here, and ask them where the nearest school or board of education is," Sherlock said flatly. "Playing the role of cousins, we're going to speak to several teachers or educators about our ideas for schooling. It should be fairly easy; we'll just talk about modern benefits of school. Once we've established ourselves as intelligent innovators for children's education, we'll keep rising up the food chain and soon request to speak with Mr. Edward Brown, who is our serial killer. We capture him and discover his motives."

"That sounds way too complicated," John said, frowning.

"What's your clever idea, then?" Sherlock retorted as the waiter came over.

"Good afternoon, sirs," he said. "May I get you anything to drink?"

"Water, please," Sherlock and John said simultaneously. The waiter, nodded, eying John's jumper and Sherlock's coat with amusement, and walked away. Sherlock scanned the room.

"John, we should probably find someone who's got children… that man over there is married, no children… that one has two dogs…" Sherlock muttered, not bothering to share how he had deduced it. "Him! John, do your socializing thing that you do with that man over there! He's married and has got three children, one of which doesn't live with him anymore and two are still young enough to."

"And how do you know that?"

"That doesn't matter, John! Furthermore, I'll have you know that I'm relying upon your diplomatic and overbearingly cordial disposition to earn his trust!"

"If you want his trust, then why didn't you have us wear the Victorian clothes?" John snapped, but accompanied Sherlock over to the table.

"Hello," John said politely. "My cousin and I just moved to London, and we were curious as to what the best restaurant are in the area. I'm John Watson, by the way, and this is Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled warmly. He was certainly a talented actor but lacked the necessary social skills.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Watson," the man responded, scanning John's and Sherlock's outfits quickly but not lingering. "I'm Donald Tapley, and this is my wife." He gestured to the woman next to him but didn't state her name. "In answer to your question, I'd say either this one or the tavern down the street is best. Why don't you eat with us and I can tell you more about the city?"  
Sherlock was bloody lucky, John thought, irritated at how easily the plan was falling into place. They brought their chairs over. John was slightly wary at how open and friendly this man was because he doubted anyone in present day would simply ask them to eat with them after only one question.

"So, Mr. Tapley, I've got a couple of children. What school do you recommend is best in London? After all, I want my sons to have the very best of education," Sherlock said, taking a sip of his water.

John's phone suddenly chimed loudly in his pocket; it was the ring that it made whenever it died. Well, he wouldn't see his phone for a while. He hoped no one had heard the sound because that might cause a few questions.

Tapley responded and John saw the shadow of triumph cross Sherlock's face; he had gotten the information he needed. For now, they were stuck eating with him though.

"Where do you work?" John asked.

"Scotland Yard," Tapley responded, and John nearly spit out his water. Sherlock noticed and to clarify the situation, said, "Oh, that would be an exciting career! Founded in 1829, right?"

"Yes," Tapley said, frowning at Sherlock's knowledge. "I thought you weren't from here?"

"Oh, Scotland Yard is admired because where I come from, we lack a formal organization to defend against crime," Sherlock said, waving his hand vaguely. "John-, er, Watson here came for the… better government. I work in science, actually, so I wanted to come to collaborate with some people, so we moved here together. Speaking of," Sherlock leaned forward. "Do you happen to know any composers?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"How about chemists?"

"No."

"Mathematicians?"  
"No."

"Well. John. We can leave this restaurant now. Mr. Donald Tapley doesn't seem to know anyone worth taking the time to meet." He glared at the man who was now looking alarmed.

"Sherlock, we didn't come here so you could meet famous people that existed during this time!"

"John, your understanding of this world differs from mine; while you see a place that we will leave when our work is finished, I see a chance! Time isn't moving in present-day, and there's absolutely no reason why we shouldn't meet people that we couldn't at any other time. If you could be less narrow-minded and more opportunistic, this could be an incredible way to talk firsthand to people that have changed the world but are too dead to communicate with!"

Tapley stood up. "That's it. You're both mad. I'm arresting you for London's safety."  
Sherlock's expression turned from indignant to amused. "Arresting?"

"Yeah, you and your cousin! You're mad!"  
John backpedaled. "I'm sorry, Don-Tapley, we're just… leaving now. Thanks for your help."

Tapley lunged over and grabbed John by the shoulders. "You two are coming with me," he commanded. Sherlock grinned.

"With what, your handcuffs? News flash, they don't exist!" he said gleefully.

"Sherlock," John warned, trying to wrench himself out of Tapley's grip, but to no avail. Tapley was a foot taller and wider, not to mention he was holding John's injured shoulder rather painfully. Tapley put his other hand around Sherlock's neck, who didn't move to escape. Clearly he didn't see the point when there was no chance of them leaving the restaurant without being caught. Other men were standing up now to watch and surround the "mad" criminals.

John cursed Sherlock's and his carelessness as they were steered out of the restaurant and down the familiar yet antique street to Scotland Yard, Sherlock's Belstaff flapping in the wind. Clearly Sherlock had a plan, though John didn't know what.

"You're coming to meet the new boss," Tapley said, walking through the doors of Scotland Yard. "He's from another region, he says, and he's got many ideas that are going to improve justice."

"Do you think he'll oppose to our arrest?" Sherlock inquired. Tapley laughed. "No. We're cracking down on the mad folk."

They entered the room, and John was stunned for what felt like the umpteenth time that day to find Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sitting at his chair and looking first surprised then amused and then serious as Sherlock and John came in.

"Thanks, Tapley. You can leave them with me," Lestrade said. Tapley nodded and left.

" _What_ are you doing here?" John vociferated. "How did you…"  
Lestrade was grinning. "Your brother, Sherlock, said that you'd be surprised that I'd be here. He asked Scotland Yard for an officer to keep an eye on you two on this case, and I volunteered."

Sherlock wasn't convinced. "My brother lied to me, then? There were at least multiple time machines, then, and time doesn't stop in the modern world when we're in the past, I presume."

"Yeah… your brother said he was concerned that you wouldn't take the case to spite him, so he made it sound like the time device was more valuable than it actually is. They've got four time devices. He also told you time would stop in the modern world because he was afraid that you would have a 'more pressing' case to attend to. And lucky that he had me come, or you two would have been arrested during your first hour in Victorian London!" Lestrade laughed. "Honestly, Sherlock Lie Detector Holmes, I thought that you would already know that."

Sherlock scowled. "No matter. Well, Giles, I'm glad that you are here to ensure that we aren't arrested. This will simplify things greatly now that the law is on our side-"

"I'm not the entire law. You can still get arrested by my superiors, you know," Lestrade interjected.

"...so John and I will now continue our case," Sherlock said. "I'll text you if-" He stopped, looking disconcerted. "Nevermind. I'll send a telegram if we need anything."  
"Right. I'll be here… managing Victorian London crime," Lestrade said, looking nervous.

"Let's go, John. We have a school to impress," Sherlock said, and stalked out of Scotland Yard with John next to him.

 **Please leave a review saying if I should continue this or not, and I'll decide how long this will be based on people's responses! :) Thank you so much and don't forget to follow/favorite!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Recap: Sherlock and John, while in Victorian London, discovered that Lestrade was also there to keep an eye on them from Scotland Yard. Sherlock is now attempting to get on the side of the teachers in order to get a chance to talk to the serial killer, who supports education.**

* * *

How Sherlock had already earned an audience with multiple teachers, John wasn't sure, but there they were, sitting in the classroom while Sherlock proposed "his" brilliant ideas.

"I have theorized and analyzed the pros and cons of the institution of what is called extracurricular activities, which are growing in popularity yet are unbeknownst to elementary schools," Sherlock said seriously, his fingers steepled under his chin. "You may have heard of it at high end universities. I suggest that elementary schools begin a range of extracurricular activities - such as debate club or literary society - in order to better prepare the students for the profusion of opportunities they will encounter post schooling."

The teacher in front stood up, snorting. "We already offer the best education in London! We have slates for each student! The girls enjoy a variety of sewing, cooking, and reading classes, and our lads have the very best arithmetic, spelling, and-"

He was cut off by Sherlock. "That reminds me of my second proposition. The world would greatly benefit if science classes were taught."

"Science?! That's left to the geeks of society!" the man said, flushing.

The male teacher next to him frowned. "You know, that's actually a novel idea."

"Of course it is. I've studied education my entire life," Sherlock asserted. John rolled his eyes.

"Furthermore, my ideas I think would best be a collaboration to institute. I'd like to speak with Mr. Edward Brown. I believe that he pushed for education and is a supporter of progress in the classroom? Together, we could finalize these visions."

The teacher raised his eyebrows. "Mr. Edward Brown is rich. He doesn't emerge from his mansion very often."

Sherlock snapped his fingers. "Yes! Speaking of, I'd like to pay a visit to his house. Where does he live exactly?"

The teacher told him. "Why don't you just do this collaboration with your cousin there?" he asked, nodding to John.

"Oh, Watson? He's incapable of superior thinking, rather unfortunately," Sherlock said, slapping his hand on John's shoulder, who immediately shoved his hand off, glaring at his friend.

"One last favor, since you have so graciously heard out my visions before they're presented elsewhere," Sherlock said. "Could you write a note approving my ideas in order for me to get an audience with Brown?"

The teacher stroked his beard. "Well… I'm not sure I'd like to support your visions."

Sherlock was taken aback. "What?" he asked, and John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's confusion that his plan hadn't gone - well, as planned.

"Look, your ideas are brilliant, but I'm not inclined to support a man who quite frankly resembles a toothpick, wears strange clothing, and has a nest for hair!"

John repressed a snort of laughter. Sherlock looked scandalized, and then smoothed his hands over his wild curls. "Better?" he asked.

"Not really," the teacher said honestly.

John decided it was his time to talk.

"Listen, mate," he said, leaning forward. "My friend- uh, cousin here has spent his entire life devoted to the… study of education. His goal is to improve the system, not look like a conformist. Please, just verify his visions and write him the note so he can talk with Brown. It's the least you can do, sir."

The teacher looked uncomfortable. "Fine," he sighed, reaching over for a quill and paper. He dipped the quill in ink and began to scrawl out a message of approval in loopy handwriting. Once done, he handed it to Sherlock, who snatched it immediately.

"Thank God this is over. Victorian teachers really are stubborn," he said, returning to the proud, superior tone he usually carried as they walked out of the classroom. John sighed.

"Can't you at least wait to say those things until they're out of earshot?" he whispered fiercely. He looked over his shoulder slightly; both teachers looked confused.

"Dull," was Sherlock's automatic response. They stepped out onto the cobblestone street. It was growing dark.

"We can close this case tomorrow, Sherlock," John said firmly. "Let's head back to Mycroft's office - or, uh, our new flat."

"What?!" Sherlock said, outraged, "John, you're never adverse to a night-time case!"

"In Victorian London I am," John said, glancing around the ill-lit street. "Look, Sherlock, it's dark, not to mention within thirty minutes no one will be on the streets because everyone's in bed by eight! Not to mention there's not very good lighting, we don't have our torches, nor do we have our mobiles in case of emergency."

Sherlock's face fell. "I suppose you're right," he agreed, crestfallen.

"Am I ever not?" John asked as they turned down the street to return to their flat.

"Yes. Quite frequently, in fact."

"Shut up. It was rhetorical," John said. "Hang on - the general store closes in two minutes!"

"So?" Sherlock asked. "We have food in the flat."

"We have _bird_ food," John said, rolling his eyes. "Nuts, soup…"

"Exactly. Substantial food."  
"Can we please just get something? Do you think there's pasta?" John asked. "Was pasta even invented now?"

"Please, John, pasta's been around for hundreds of years."

"But how would we boil it? We don't have a pot," John mused as they stepped into the general store. There was a dusty window in the front but that was it; the rest of the stores was dark. A clerk was sweeping.

"We're closed," he said pointedly.

Sherlock leaned over to the sign on the window. "Actually, you close in one minute," he said pleasantly, strolling past the cluttered, crowded shelves full of medicines and random foods. "Come on, John."

They browsed the food. John brightened at the white bread.

"We can make sandwiches," he said, grabbing a loaf.

"Yes, of course, John, if you're willing to risk malnutrition difficulties and bowel problems. Bread in the nineteenth century was often adulterated with aluminium."

"Oh," John said quickly, putting the bread back. "What do you recommend, then?"

"Not eating tonight," Sherlock said promptly.

"Right. You know what? Let's just eat the soup Mycroft bought," John said, irritated. "Oh - but we don't have a pot to heat it up with!"

Sherlock emerged from behind a shelf holding a very old-fashioned looking (or modern, John thought, since 1895 was present-day for them at the moment) pot. "Found one!" he announced brightly.

The clerk told them the price. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"What's the actual price?" he asked, his nimble fingers tapping the counter.

"I just told you!"

"No, I don't think you did. First, the price is grossly expensive, considering you're running a small general store; I doubt that the price should be even half of what you say you're selling it for. Second, though your Victorian methods won't understand this, you're touching your neck while telling me the price and purposely standing with your arms crossed and the convenient vase of flowers in between us rather than shifting to the left; furthermore, your eye contact is strangely strong; thus, based upon your strong indications of deceit, I am forced to believe that you're lying," Sherlock finished with an air of finality.

"I'll give it to you for half if you tell me how you did that," the clerk said, looking amazed.

"It's simple, really; even the most straightforward minds like John's here could understand it. While my friend was browsing the food, out of interest for Victorian prices compared to modern day prices, I read the book that you handily keep out on the counter." Sherlock pointed to the far corner of the counter where a notebook sat. "I scanned it and saw the prices that you had been selling other pots at."

"What about… me touching my neck and all of that other rubbish?" the clerk asked, his brow crinkled.

"Oh, those were just fascinating contributions that aligned with your lie that I found prudent to point out in order to make a semi-interesting deduction," Sherlock said bluntly. "Let's go, John."

They left the store.  
"You know, Sherlock, you could at least pretend to be from this day! You don't have to hint you're from the future every chance you get!"

"I saved us money," Sherlock said, frowning.

John shook his head and they returned to the flat.

"Chicken noodle, tomato, or barley?" John asked, holding up the cans.

"Tomato," Sherlock said instantly, and soon the musty flat was filled with the comforting scent of tomato soup.

 **To be continued! Next chapter John and Sherlock will encounter Edward Brown, the serial killer. Don't forget to follow / favorite / and leave a review, I'd be so grateful! Thanks so much!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Recap: John and Sherlock are about to go meet Edward Brown to stop him from murdering the astronomers of Victorian times. They've gotten verification from a London teacher so that they can have a reason to meet with Edward Brown, who is a supporter of education.**

* * *

"Shouldn't we at least wear the Victorian clothes to meet Edward Brown?" John asked the next morning, his brow furrowed.

"I prefer eccentricity."

"Well, I don't."

"Then I give you my permission to dress up," Sherlock said, disinterested.

"I wasn't asking for your permission!" John protested.

"Then why were you asking in the first place? If you weren't asking permission, you would have just done it, setting aside if I'd do it as well."

John scowled in response. It was one thing living in Baker Street together, with separate bedrooms and a kitchen and living room, and another when they were sharing a one-room flat with only two twin beds and a chest in the room. He was already looking forward to returning to modern day.

"Do you think the case will be over by the end of today?" John asked, plucking at his shirt. He desperately wanted to shower and wash his clothes, and even just enjoy the luxury of charging his phone.

"I should think it will be over within an hour," Sherlock said confidently. "We can gather Lestrade and return to our day. As much as Victorian London is fascinating, it's quite dull if there isn't a case."

"How would you know? You've been on a case the entire time you've been here," John argued. Sherlock frowned at him.

"Sorry," John said, and he meant it. "It's difficult living in this small space with you, you know?"

"No," Sherlock said genuinely, and they left the flat to hail a carriage to Edward Brown's mansion.

* * *

They stopped at Scotland Yard first to let Lestrade know where they'd be, and then continued to the outside of London. The buildings turned to trees lining the road and soon they were following a small creek up a dirt road where a mansion loomed in the distance.

"I don't understand. How did he get so rich?" John asked.

"Influence," Sherlock said simply.

They stepped out of the carriage and went up to the door. Sherlock used the knocker and thirty seconds later, a small, pale girl opened the door.

"Hello, sirs, what can I do for you?" she asked with a Scottish accent.

"Hello," Sherlock said warmly, reassuming his role as an ordinary Londoner. "My cousin and I would like to speak with Mr. Brown about our positions in education. Is he available?"

The girl opened the door a bit wider. "I should think so, sir. He's preparing for the day in his bathroom, sir. I can allow you in and have Edward come see you once he's ready."

Sherlock and John followed the girl, who was the maid, into the sitting room, where she took their shoes and coats for them (Sherlock departed with his coat and scarf only very reluctantly). They were left alone in the quiet room, waiting for the serial killer to arrive.

"How did he end up killing them?" John whispered to Sherlock as they sat placidly.

"Mycroft's file said that it was a variety of ways. That's how he wasn't caught," Sherlock said in a low voice. "One was stabbed, another strangled, another poisoned, et cetera."

"So what's the plan? You figure out why he wanted to kill astronomers, then we lunge out and grab him?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the chair. "Lestrade's due to arrive here in exactly forty-six minutes, remember. We can't capture him too early or his maid and butlers will most likely attempt to stop us."

"So what are we doing for the next forty-six minutes?" John asked. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when Edward Brown walked into the room.

He was a plump man with a round face and spring in his step. A large moustache decorated his face. Sherlock stood immediately to shake his hand; John followed suit.

The conversation, to John's surprise, took off very well; whether Sherlock was feigning his interest with the conversation or he was genuinely interested in Brown's ideas, he wasn't sure. However, after only twenty-five minutes of discussing Sherlock's extracurricular activity ruse, they had already mapped out a plan to put it in action. John sat quietly most of the time, unsure of how to contribute to the conversation, when Sherlock suddenly said:

"John Watson, my cousin, is helping me launch astronomy programs in schools as well. He's an astronomer himself with some brilliant ideas about the stars and space."

Sherlock looked meaningfully at John to pick up the conversation while Brown watched him expectantly. John cleared his throat. Sherlock was now watching Brown intently, most likely to examine his reaction to John's "ideas" about astronomy.

"Well," John began, searching desperately for something, anything, to say. "I've always been fascinated by… the planets. The theory of aliens. Extraterrestrial life."

"And?" Brown said, his eyebrows raised.

"I… don't believe that they exist. I've been proposing life on… Pluto. For a couple of decades," John improvised. "I've concluded that they're nonexistent."

"Pluto? I consider myself familiar with astronomy," Brown said, confused, "yet I've never heard of that. Is it a star?"

"Oh!" John said, surprised. "It's… just another celestial object," he lied, desperate to not screw with history's timeline.

"Hmm. I'll have to look into that," Brown said. "More tea?"

Sherlock and John accepted, and Brown quickly poured them more tea. They sipped it carefully, waiting for Brown to discuss his perspective on astronomy.

"I myself have conducted research on astronomy," Brown said abruptly, "and I have decided that I do not follow many of the theories, as they interfere with the church and my beliefs."

"In my years at college, I met some aspiring astronomers who had very varying beliefs in religion but still conducted the same research. They just had different conclusions about what they found. It was very fascinating to hear all of the different beliefs and how they coincided - or didn't - with the religion," John said as impartially as he could.

"Hmm," Brown said again. Sherlock glanced at the clock suddenly and nodded at John. After a pregnant pause, in which they both waited a moment to guarantee the other was on the same page via eye contact, they sprung out of their chairs. John dove and tackled Brown, he wasn't even resisting out of surprise, and Sherlock ran to his coat, where he still had handcuffs from modern day.

"What is this?!" Brown called out in surprise, struggling against the restraints. "Never have I seen such… treachery!" He continued to curse at them including words and phrases John had never heard of.

"Lestrade will be here any moment," Sherlock said, impatiently tapping his foot.

John didn't answer. A wave of vertigo had suddenly overwhelmed him and he toppled to the floor.

"John?" Sherlock asked, confused. "What are you doing?"

This time, John vomited in response.

"John!" Sherlock cried out this time. "What… what is it?! Are you alright?!" He looked quite flustered and unsure of what to do, his hands open wide. John tried to tell him that he was just feeling a bit dizzy but only more vomit came out, and he watched from the floor as Sherlock sprinted in a mad dash to the tea.

"John, I never thought…I didn't think Brown would… upon finding out you were an 'astronomer', he must have thought that your research would interfere with his beliefs! He poisoned you, you were going to be his first victim!"  
John gripped his head in his hands, willing himself not to vomit again. Brown was still in the corner, struggling against the handcuffs to no avail.

"Arsenic! Arsenic was a popular poison in this era!" Sherlock said triumphantly. "John, you've got to get to a hospital!" He sprinted to the entrance as Lestrade knocked on the door. Sherlock flung it open. "He's over there, Detective Inspector," Sherlock explained rapidly. "I'll come back to close matters, but we have to run back to present-day. John's been poisoned with arsenic. Brown was under the impression that he was an astronomer."

Lestrade nodded, eyes wide, and immediately took Brown, leading him out the door to the waiting carriage. Sherlock ran back to John's side.

"Let's go back to modern day. Arsenic isn't very pleasant," John said weakly. Sherlock already had his coat, digging in his pocket. His eyes widened. "Hang on…" he said, digging in the other pocket.

"John, the time device is in the flat. On the other side of London."

"What?" John repeated, beginning to shiver. That couldn't be good.

"We don't have time to get it, we're on the other side of London," Sherlock said fervently, rubbing his hands together, and helping John to his feet and running him back to their waiting carriage outside of Brown's mansion. "You'll have to go to a Victorian hospital."

 **Thank you so much for reading! I'd be so so happy if you followed / favourited / reviewed, it would make my day!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Recap: Sherlock and John managed to catch the serial killer (who was killing astronomers because their ideas clashed with his beliefs), but John was poisoned with arsenic and the time device is on the other side of London.**

 **Note: The time continuums might be slightly off in this depending on what the most accurate way to write different timelines is, but I just took the opportunity of writing whatever made most sense for my plot :) If I had taken the time to draw out the timelines, then it would have certainly been different, but I thought this would be best to work with the plot.**

* * *

"I am _not_ going to a Victorian hospital!" John said instantaneously.

"Not for an extended period of time, John! I'm not ignorant! I'll drop you off there, where they can keep an eye on you and hopefully make sure you don't die. I can sprint over to the Mycroft's office - our flat - and grab the time device, then come back and bring us to a modern hospital!"

"But -" John protested. He struggled to think of a good argument and found that he couldn't find any. He was suddenly feeling very warm; whatever dosage Brown had slipped in his tea was certainly very acute.

"Sherlock, I don't think I have more than an hour," John began, speaking rapidly. "Just - drop me off, alright, and don't even bother with stopping the carriage, just get to the flat as soon as possible, yeah?"

"That was the plan," Sherlock said, teeth gritted. "John, you're not going to die."

"How do you know?!" John asked indignantly. "There's a high chance that I won't survive this!"

"You'll survive, John, because I won't let you die," Sherlock said, his voice stiff.

"Oh, come on!" John said, mirth in his voice. "Even you can't guarantee that!"

"John, I promise you, there is no way that I will let you die," Sherlock said, his voice deadly. John shut up; he disagreed - he could potentially die from this - but for his friend's sake he said nothing more.

Their carriage was extremely anti-climatic. Despite the tense situation, the horse seemed to trot at the pace of a snail moving uphill. Sherlock leaned forward to the coach (Cabby? Coach? John wasn't sure what to call him) and said in a very demanding voice, "Faster."

"I'm sorry, sir, but the horses are tired. They can't go much faster 'til they've got their dinner-"

"I don't care. Faster, or I'll take control of the carriage."

The coach threw his hands in the air. "Look, sir, we're going as fast as we can!"

Sherlock grimaced and leaned back. They rode in silence, Sherlock shooting covert looks at John every so often to evaluate his health. It took nearly forty minutes to arrive at the hospital, and when they did, John leapt out quickly.

"I'll see you soon," John said as calmly as possible to Sherlock, attempting to hide the convulsions that seemed to be inside his stomach from the poisoning. Blood arsenic. He left the carriage without a backward glance and marched into the hospital; hopefully, if he could have access to some medicines he could administer them himself without interference from the doctors.

"I've been poisoned with arsenic, and I need immediate medical attention," John said loudly to the Victorian people, unsure of how their hospital worked.

"We can take you, sir," a short man said immediately, and led him to a room with a tiny, hard bed. "Been all sorts of poisonings lately. Didn't think it was too dangerous until people started using it for murder," he laughed. "Still not too lethal, we don't think. I wouldn't worry if I were you."

John felt his jaw drift open slightly.

"Oh - well - I think my dosage is lethal," John attempted to explain, shuddering again as the arsenic brought about nausea. "I need medicine. Antibiotics. Anything!"

"I don't know about An-eye-bio… tricks? But we do have some pain relief," the doctor said cheerfully, gathering a washcloth from the cupboard. He wrung it out slightly.

"Stay still, sir," he commanded, and John obeyed, curious as to what the Victorian method of doctoring was despite the fact that there was poison in his bloodstream at the moment. However, an instant too late he realized it was a mistake to lie there placidly, as the doctor turned and pressed the cloth without further ado against John's mouth.

"Relax, it's just a calming tool," the doctor said, ignoring John's furious attempts to shove the washcloth away. It was too late, though, he had breathed in before realizing what the doctor was doing - his head was spinning - no, no, no, he couldn't fall unconscious, not when he was poisoned! Not now… but the darkness was welcoming… and John fell into it.

* * *

He woke up with vomit on the side of his chest. That was brilliant. Fortunately the doctor had known enough to turn him on his side. He gasped as a headache ravaged through his temples and retched again, realizing that he wouldn't be able to sit up without passing out.

Sherlock still wasn't there with the time machine.

The edges of his vision was black. Bile rose in his throat and he called for the doctor, but his voice didn't seem to be working. He blinked rapidly, fighting the spiraling that was forcing his erratic eye movements - he couldn't focus on any one object - and it was then that he realized he'd be dying alone in 1895 of arsenic, because there was no one there… no doctors monitoring him, no Sherlock with the time device.

John retched again, the last of his bile bitter. It was in all honesty the most disgusting sour vomit he'd ever tasted in his life. Well, John supposed in the back of his mind, it looked like he was dying with the last of his thoughts being the bile in his mouth.

The darkness in his eyes began to envelope his body… the pain was easing, it was over.

John thought of Sherlock (see, his last thought wouldn't be of vomit, he vaguely noticed). Sherlock would have to accept that John died, and John hated to think of the man being left alone to live in Baker Street, especially after John had experienced it himself for two years… after Reichenbach…

The blackness swallowed him whole, this time with a beam of light in front of him, and he finally felt relief as he floated away from the horrible pain and stench of the Victorian hospital.

* * *

One second, John was drifting peacefully upward, dead. He knew he was dead, it wasn't just a theory. It was a fact. He had died, his heart had stopped, he had left his body.

The next second - no, not even a second, more like a quadrillionth of a nanosecond - he was in the carriage with Sherlock, back with the familiar pain of the arsenic in his bloodstream. He gasped, glancing wildly at Sherlock.

" _What_ just happened?! I just died! I was dead! Gone!" John demanded.

"I think it's quite obvious, John, if you thought about it. By the time I arrived at the hospital with the time device, you were regrettably dead. I must admit that was a difficult sight to absorb. I set back the time to when we first arrived in Victorian London, then continued the case as though nothing had changed, including not prohibiting Brown from poisoning you - I wanted to ensure that we still captured him."

"Then why did I only become aware that I wasn't dead now and not earlier?!" John was bemused. "I… I was dead! Dead!"  
"I'm not quite sure, to be honest," Sherlock said. "I assume it has to do with how the time continuums coincided… I am not sure why you became aware of the previous timeline only now, however."

"I was dead," John said faintly.

"Yes, that was quite obvious when I walked into the room and-" Sherlock stopped suddenly, flushing.

"And what?" John probed.

"Nothing."

"You just don't like to admit that you were bothered by a corpse for the first time in your life."

"You would be, too, John, if you had seen me pale and limp with no heartbeat!" Sherlock snapped angrily. "It wasn't a sight I wanted to see!"

"You realize that I have seen you pale, limp, and without a heartbeat?" John inquired.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, that was six months ago!"

"Right, well, thanks for going back to start over the case to save me," John said, a bit more meek.

"Ready to go back to modern day? Lestrade already went back, he's waiting for us," Sherlock said, holding out the time device. "He arrested Brown for poisoning you. Brown won't be killing any astronomers, which means Mycroft will get his treasured astronomy science that he so desired."

"Yeah, let's go back," John said, eager to charge his phone and no longer stand out with his jeans and jumper.

They both clutched the device and with a flash, left Victorian London; John could only hope that was the last time they'd ever be there - he didn't fancy being in a place he had died in.

 **I didn't mean to end the story here but it just sort of did. Anyway, thanks so much to everyone that read it!**


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